Page 3 of Hush, Little Baby

I slow down just before the windows start—big, reinforced panes set in deep wooden frames. I cross my fingers in my hoodie pocket and mutter a silent plea to the universe that the room is empty tonight. The last thing I want is to walk in on a couple in the middle of some perfect, pastel daydream. They don’t mean anything by it, but it hurts, and I’m tired of hurting. Especially tonight.

I peek around the glass with the caution of a stray cat, an involuntary smile stretching across my face as I realize it’s empty.

I open the door and slip inside like it’s a secret, letting it close quietly behind me.

The air in here is different, somehow softer than anywhere else in the building. It smells like fruity hand sanitizer, old crayons, and a faint, reassuring note of cleaning spray. The walls are painted a gentle turquoise, and the lighting is bright but not harsh, as if whoever designed the space wanted to remind people what noon on a spring day looks like.

Bright foam mats in cheery primary colors cover the floor, and shelves line the walls with bins and baskets overflowing with toys, picture books, and tactile fidgets. There’s one corner with sensory tiles set into the wall—little patches you can run your hands across, each with a different texture or temperature. Next to that, a small tent shaped like a frog is surrounded by a heap of plushies, some pristine and some so obviously loved that their faces are faded and their stuffing has migrated far from its original coordinates.

I stand in the doorway for a long moment, just letting the room happen to me. A classic children’s movie is playing on the TV, and I watch as cartoon dogs walk side by side down an alleyway.

I take a slow breath, and the tension in my chest begins to melt. For the first time in what feels like hours, I’m not clenching my jaw or digging my nails into my palms. I just… am.

I toe off my battered sneakers and leave them in the cubby near the door. The rugs here are plush and forgiving, and when I step onto them in my socks, I feel taller and lighter, almost like I could float if I wanted to.

I wander over to the wall of coloring supplies and scan the options, letting my fingers drift across the labels. I pick a pack of thick triangular crayons—my favorites, because they won’t roll away if you drop them, and they’re easier to grip when your hands feel useless—and a coloring book with baby animals on the cover. I cradle them against my chest and make my way to the bean bags in the middle of the room.

I choose the biggest one, a ridiculous oval the color of a traffic cone, and fall into it with a loud whoosh. The bean bag envelops me, swallowing me up, so that only the tops of my knees and my head poke out. It’s like being cocooned in a giant mitten, and I love it.

I open the coloring book to a random page, a scene with a bear cub clinging to a tree branch, and set the crayons beside me. I can feel my body relaxing with each small, concrete task—opening the book, snapping the crayon case open, and peeling back the paper from a fresh blue crayon. It’s the kind of focus I can’t manage anywhere else.

I start coloring, filling in the sky with big, even strokes. My hands are still shaky from the day, but it’s easier to forgive myself here. No one cares if the colors go outside the lines, or if I have to switch to my left hand after a minute because the right starts to cramp. The bear gets a patchy brown fur, the leaves a cartoonish green, and the branch turns a wild shade of purple because why not. The world outside the lines is allowed here.

At some point, I become aware that I’m humming quietly to myself, a nonsense tune that probably belongs to a commercial or a children’s show I haven’t seen in years. It’s embarrassing but also comforting. No one can hear me. No one is watching.

Except the plushies, maybe.

I reach out and grab the nearest one, a long pink cat with an embroidered smile and a missing ear. I tuck it into my lap, pulling it close as I keep coloring. With every minute that passes, the frantic buzz of my thoughts slows down. My breathing evens out. The ache in my back and legs dulls to a manageable throb.

I color until my eyes hurt, then look down at my work and feel a flicker of pride, before it’s quickly smothered by the old shame.

I’m too old for this.

I’m too much.

I’m not enough.

All the bad thoughts start to come back, but softer now, less like an alarm and more like a tired voice warning me not to get comfortable.

I set the coloring book aside and let my head fall back against the bean bag, staring up at the white ceiling tiles. There’s a stain in one corner, a tan circle that looks like the moon.

For a while, I think about nothing. Then, inevitably, I think about everything.

I think about the doctor’s message. About the mail piling up back home. About my birthday next week, and how it’s supposed to be this milestone I never thought I’d reach, but now it feels less like a celebration and more like a countdown to disaster. I think about the crumbs in my car and the persistent, gnawing guilt that I’m wasting every second of my life. I think about how my body is crumbling, cell by cell, and how no one seems to care enough to figure out why.

My throat tightens with the urge to cry, but I try to ride it out. That’s what you do. You let the feeling come, and you don’t try to fix it. You just wait and hope it passes.

My thumb drifts up toward my mouth, and before I can stop myself, I’m sucking on it.

I close my eyes and try to focus on the soft give of the bean bag beneath me, the plush warmth of the cat in my arms, and the quiet voices coming from the TV.

I drift somewhere between awake and asleep, letting my thoughts float over me like clouds. Some are dark and heavy, others brief and bright. I remember how, when I was younger, my mom used to rub my back in slow circles when I cried, and how she would whisper, “It’s okay, baby boy. You’re safe.” I don’t know when she stopped, or when I stopped believing it.

A tear slips down the side of my face, cold and quick. I swipe at it with the back of my hand, annoyed that I’m crying again when I promised myself I wouldn’t.

I curl further onto my side, tucking the plushie closer to my chest.

My eyes start to sting a little, and I open them, blink rapidly, and then stare at the TV like that might keep the tears from falling.